


Expectations

by theharellan



Series: Become the Storm (Thora Cadash) [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Fantasy Racism, Hard conversations neither party was prepared to have rn, Other, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21672355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/pseuds/theharellan
Summary: Solas asks for a moment alone, and Thora isn't sure what to expect. Rewrite of the balcony friendship scene with my Inquisitor.
Relationships: Cadash & Solas (Dragon Age), Female Cadash & Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: Become the Storm (Thora Cadash) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982695
Kudos: 13





	Expectations

Thora squints against the sun as she steps onto a balcony bathed in midday light. The wind from the Frostbacks is cold on her cheeks, but it’s a welcome relief to stand under an open sky after the high, windowless walls surrounding Solas’s study. He paces along the edge, his fingers running along the ridges of the stone balcony, feeling the grooves beneath their tips. The walk up here had been quiet, at least by their standards, with only polite inquiries as to her health. Now, whatever he had brought her here for weighs visibly upon his expression, brow wrinkled with thought.  


“You had something on your mind, Solas?”

He sighs, hand lifting to press against his head, ironing out the lines in his forehead. There’s something familiar about the way Solas conducts himself when his emotions finally get the better of him: the pacing, the gesture of his hands, the way his eyes always look away before they find hers. It’s almost amusing to see him that way, considering who she knew him as when they first met. Amusing, until she remembers Wisdom. “What were you like,” Solas asks, hand falling to his side, “before the Anchor?” Thora’s eyes are drawn to her hand, fingers unfurling to stare at the green crack that glows along her lifeline. Whatever answer he seeks, she does not give it quick enough. “Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?”

“What?” she laughs, looking up, expecting to see mirth in his face, but he meets her gaze with stony eyes which kill the sound in her throat. So, he’s not kidding. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to know that.” She feels the same, mostly. Dreams are new, but Solas knows that already. “I don’t think so. I’ve always been this way, more or less. People are just… more likely to look at me than over me, now.” All the things she says now are what she said before, the only difference being she has a title to make them count, but that answer doesn’t seem to satisfy him. Solas’s ears angle back against his head, lips curving in a reluctant smile that she thinks is meant to assuage her doubts about the direction this conversation is heading.

“I see,” he says, “an excellent point.” It’s not disappointment she sees when she looks at him twice. It _is_ familiar, though. She’s seen it in the eyes of everyone she’s ever told she’s no Herald, like she’s confirming something terrible they already knew was true.

“Why do you ask?”

His eyes drift, skirting the same mountains he’d led them through to get here. They seem to wander, farther and farther, perhaps back to Haven, as they had done in her dream. He had said it was important to her, but it was to more than just her. Haven was where desperate survivours became an Inquisition, Solas among them. It had changed things for the both of them, whether he would admit that or not. “You show a wisdom I have not seen since…” His voice trails, sentence losing itself as his gaze drifts across the horizon. In the space of a second they’re on her again, grey eyes bright with a familiar passion. “Since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected.”

A refrain she’s heard before. In part, anyway. With Solas it’s different, most everyone else had heard the title ‘Herald’ a dozen times before ever clapping eyes on her, he saw her back when she was known a prisoner, harbinger of their doom. Blackwall had put it best, his cheeks red with embarrassment when he admitted he thought she’d be taller. Human, more like. “What did you expect?” she asks, bracing for his answer.

“Dwarves are practical. They do not dream, they cannot even imagine a world beyond the physical, but you have shown subtlety in your actions, a mind for the metaphysical. A wisdom that goes against everything I know of your people.” His words hit her like a blow to the gut. Yes, it’s refrain she’s heard before. That doesn’t make it any easier.

“Oh,” she says, voice small. That’s almost where she leaves it– oh. It’s easy, letting it slide, she’s taken enough hits to pretend this one doesn’t hurt. She laughed with Sera, laughed off Blackwall, and it won’t cost her nothing to laugh Solas off, too. Only, she can’t quite seem to bring herself to. Something inside her steels itself, and she breathes in through her nose so she doesn’t stumble over her words. She’s speaking to her feet, but she knows he’ll hear well enough. “I guess you haven’t known too many dwarves, then.”

The accusation– because that’s what it is, isn’t it?– takes him by surprise. His ears perk forward, then pin back against his head as red steals into his cheeks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe you should take a second look at what’s around you.” She sees a frown pull at his lips before his gaze breaks from her. His hand sweeps idly over the balcony, and there’s something in his eyes that looks like he’s remembering. What he’s remembering, it’s hard to say with Solas. It could be yesterday’s breakfast, or a moment lived a hundred years ago by someone else, someone who he alone remembers. Thora holds her tongue, waiting for him to say something. Anger, acceptance, denial, but he lapses into sustained silence. Their eyes catch each other’s, just for a moment, long enough for her to trust he’ll listen. “You’ve read Varric’s books, haven’t you? All those made-up names and people, and he’s not the first dwarf to put pen to paper.” Or chisel to stone, as the case may be. “Some were so good at it the Assembly made them Paragons.”

Thora moves to stand beside him, shadow tall next to his. She leans into the balustrade, tucking her elbows upon the stone rail to look upon the distant mountains. “And I don’t know where Dagna’s head is half the time, but I don’t think it was ever with the Stone.” Not the way she tells it. Her sights were set on the Circle before she’d ever seen the sun. “She doesn’t dream like you do– or, like we do, but you’d be hard-pressed to say she isn’t a dreamer.” There had to be a bit of a dream in the head of every dwarf who journeyed to the Surface, to imagine a life beyond the heavy doors that lead into Orzammar. Sometimes she wonders what the dream in her ancestors’ heads were when they left, sometimes she wonders if Solas could tell her, if they went looking for it. Could they have ever dreamt of this, of her? Her hands curl, fists pressed into the stone, fingers touching the mark on the palm of her left hand.

Likely not.

She takes a small, steadying breath, cold air painting her throat, reminding herself of where she’s headed. “Just in this age, dwarves have invented smokeless forges and– machines, just powered by hot air.” She hopes she’s remembering that right. All she recalls is word of some Surfacer in Val Royeaux with a forge that employed a hundred men, and tools that run on steam. “My people can do more than just imagining a world beyond the physical… they make it real.”

Silence falls between them, the sort that curls her stomach into knots. He waits until she’s ready to burst before he says or does anything, a quiet inhale heralding his remark, “You have thought about this before.” Solas’s voice is soft against the wind, coloured by something that sounds like contrition.

“I… I guess I have.” It’s only now she realises the amount of times she’s had this conversation in her head, always after hearing another remark about dwarven merchants. “It’s hard not to, with people the way they are. You… well, you must know what I mean.” She’s heard him say as much before, wondering aloud why people are defined by form and not their nature.

Thora glances at him out of the corner of her eye, scanning his expression. He’s still looking out at the horizon, but something in his face tells her he’s not really seeing much of it. That most of him is turned inward, looking at himself, maybe. “I suppose I do,” he says after a moment. “I am sorry to have caused offense. My intent… I meant only to express how much you have come to mean to me, since that day you first calmed the skies. With each passing day, you have given me new reason to respect you.”

Her lips spread in a smile, but it feels tender and fragile on her face. “You’re my friend, too, Solas.”

He cracks a smile to match hers, looking down at the railing before his eyes slide to meet hers. His skin is still blotchy with shame, pink to the tips of his ears. “Thank you. You have given me much to consider, as I have come to expect. I admit, so much of this world I have come to know through dreams alone, what I know of your people leaves much to be desired.”

“Hm.” She’s reminded of the list she found on Solas’ desk, the page full of books with titles in three languages, all on the Fade and the daunting tasks ahead of them. Giving him dreams is beyond her capabilities, but books she can manage. “I can give you some places to start.” Thora pushes against the balustrade, walking backwards a few steps into her room, knowing just what she’s looking for. It waits for her on her bedside table, a book clumsily bound with coarse linen cords. The kind you resort to when you’re bookbinding, Lowtown style. “Here,” she says, passing it into his waiting hands, “some of those poems I mentioned.”

Lying the spine flat in the palm of his hand, he pries the book open, flipping through the first several pages as though he were touring it. Recognition flashes in his eyes, brow raising in her direction. “This is your handwriting.”

It figures that he’d notice. Her cheeks flush, hotter than the cold air warrants, when she sees she has to explain herself. “I copied it myself. The original I, um, it wasn’t mine.” The polite way of saying Lantos had stolen it for her. She remembers sneaking it back onto the shelf it belonged on, coming closer to getting caught returning the damn thing than he had taking it. “Took a while, but I knew I’d want to read it again.”

Amusement creases the corners of his eyes, but he has the manners not to laugh. “I see.” He parses through it another moment. Without even seeing the page she knows what he’s looking at, a series of short poems by Paragon Lynchcar, written in the breathing space between battles. Oh, she wishes she could read it again for the first time. The book snaps shut with a puff of air, and when he lifts his chin to meet her eyes, the red in his cheeks has cooled. Instead, his expression is alight with the same eagerness she’s seen as they’re standing in the shadow of a long-crumbled home, the prospect of learning shining in his eyes like stars. “Thank you again, but I fear I have troubled you enough for one evening. Besides,” Solas gestures with the book, a smile turning the corners of his lips, “it appears I have reading to do.”


End file.
